"What do you think of that?" he asked. Duvall gazed at the telegram with a feeling of helpless anger.
"Twenty-six days more," it read. "When you appear in your new picture at the Grand to-night, it will be your last. I shall be there." The grinning death's head seal was appended in lieu of a signature, as before.
A feeling of resentment swept over the detective. It seemed that these people acted as they saw fit, with supreme indifference to the fact that he was on their trail. Never before had he felt his skill so flouted, his ability made so light of. And yet, as usual, the message had apparently been delivered in such a way as to make tracing it impossible.
"Still at it, it seems," Mr. Baker remarked. "This thing has got to stop, and at once. I don't propose to let anybody make a monkey of me."
Duvall turned to the director, Mr. Edwards.
"Who prepared the original telegram?" he asked quickly.
Mr. Edwards looked at the detective in surprise, evidently wondering what this stranger had to do with the matter.
"Answer, Edwards. It's all right," snapped Mr. Baker.
"I prepared the property telegram," the director answered.
"When?"